


Touch and Go

by versaillesatnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bisexual Dean, Bottom Sam, Brief descriptions of Dean being with other people, Dean can't deal with feelings, Fluff, Heterosexual Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Very quick het, Virgin Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaillesatnight/pseuds/versaillesatnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester doesn’t date. He fucks around, sure, but the whole dating thing? He’s never seen the appeal.</p><p>Enter Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been so much fun to write hahaah and it got long FAST. It's a high school au, OBVIOUSLY, and Dean fucks around with a lot of people so if that bothers you here is your warning!! Of course, this is sickening fluff so don't let that dissuade you if that's your fear!! UM. I know what's going to happen in part two but this was literally like so fun and easy to write that I just wanted to share it?? Title is from State of Grace by Taylor Swift! A+ song guys!! It isn't betaed so please let me know if you see any glaring errors or if i forgot to tag something important!! Otherwise please enjoy!!

Dean Winchester doesn’t date. He’s a senior in high school now, and he’s yet to have a single steady girlfriend. Or boyfriend, for that matter. He fucks around, sure, but the whole dating thing? He’s never seen the appeal.

            To be fair, Dean Winchester fucks around _a lot._ He’s got a friends-with-benefits thing going on with three separate girls, and two guys. Aside from that, he’s got a long string of people who’ve caught feelings that he had to let loose. It makes school kind of drag, especially with a class size under a hundred. Honestly, school itself is kind of drag. Dean would quit it completely if his dad wouldn’t shit himself over it.

            Dean spends a lot of time behind bleachers, in janitor’s closets. He has for three years, as soon as he outgrew his awkward first freshman semester.

            He’s just gotten Cassie to come, pumping two fingers into her wet pussy as he thumbs at her clit. She’s breathing hard, face flushed, as she reaches tiredly for Dean’s belt. Dean smiles, winks meaningfully, “Don’t worry about it, Cas.”

            Cassie laughs, “Pretty worked up, huh?” And Dean agrees.

            In truth, he’s kind of bored of fucking around with Cassie. She’s been a sure thing for a couple of years, and she’s so fucking hot but Dean doesn’t feel like his heart is in it anymore.

            Castiel and Benny are kind of dull, too. He hasn’t even fucked Bela or Lisa for weeks. Not that they aren’t hot, not that they aren’t fun—it’s just. Dean thinks he needs to get out of this fucking town. Everything is so boring. He’s already fucked Castiel in the janitor’s closet, had him spurting across the dirty walls and tried to convince him to lick it up. Lisa has already ridden him reverse-cowgirl in the grass behind the football stadium. He needs new material, or something. He thinks it’s maybe that thing where you have too much sex and your reward system gets too over stimulated. Maybe.

            He doesn’t really know what he needs. But he slowly starts fazing his FWB’s out, trying to work back to just friends. They were a solid top five, none of them had even hinted at having a thing for him. Dean liked that about them. He liked that he could slide easily into sitting with them all at lunch, chatting pleasantly, after only a few rebuked offers to cut class.

            The only one that surprises him is Benny. Benny takes it kind of weird, narrows his eyes at Dean when he says Benny should come have lunch with him instead for the second time that week.

            “What’s going on, Dean?”

            “I like having lunch, dude.”

            Benny raises an eyebrow and declines. Dean shrugs, nods at Benny in the halls the next day, and doesn’t get a response.

            A week afterwards, a new kid transfers in from somewhere in fucking Minnesota.

            Dean hears about it at his lunch table, Cassie mentioning it idly, because even as seniors, a sophomore transferring into a school so small was still news.

            Dean doesn’t make much of it, waves it off. He’s got fifteen more weeks till he’s completely free of this place. The only thing he really feels is a vague pity for the sucker who transferred in to such a shithole.

            Dean takes honors World History. It’s a small class, with no one Dean has slept with, and he kind of enjoys it. Even before his whole funk, he’d sometimes rather be in class than getting blown in an empty classroom.

            When Dean walks in, there’s a guy sitting in his seat. _New kid,_ Dean’s brain recognizes instantly, but that thought is pretty much wiped out as Dean rakes his eyes up and down the guy.

            He’s fucking hot. His legs are splayed out under the desk, face tilted downwards so Dean can really _appreciate_ those cheekbones and that pretty, pretty mouth.

            Dean’s dick twitches in his jeans. He guesses that pleasure-center overload thing is completely bogus. He adjusts, sits in the seat that usually stays unoccupied next to his, and clears his throat.

            The kid turns. He’s a little quick about it, a little jumpy.

            “That’s my seat,” Dean says, smirks and raises an eyebrow.

            The kid’s eyes narrow, cheeks turning red, “I didn’t know this class had assigned seats.”

            Dean’s surprised by how pissed off the kid sounds. He looked so sweet just sitting there before, like something just wrapped up and delivered to Dean. Dean doesn’t mind though. He likes a little spirit.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, “Guy like you probably gets what he wants all the time, huh?”

            “What?”

            “Just saying, pretty boy like should have stuff given to him.”

            The kid turns his head; flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. His eyes are averted from Dean’s face, and Dean barely hears it as the kid hisses, “Are you making fun of me?”

            Dean is truly shocked. He doesn’t know if he’s off his game or if the kid is really not into dudes and Dean’s offended him somehow. Either way, he’s scrambling.

            “No! Of course not!” Dean says, a little louder than he’d intended. The kid turns to meet his eyes again, still looking a little wary.

            “I was just—“ and Dean recognizes that look now. The kid is fucking _shy._ Dean feels warmed to his core. This is going to be so much fun.

            “I’m sorry,” Dean says, changes his tactics, “I was trying to be funny and I came off like a giant douche.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Let’s start again. I’m Dean, nice to meet you.” Dean sticks out a hand. The kid looks at it strangely and Dean wonders for a second if he really isn’t going to take it.

            “Sam,” the kid replies, shakes Dean’s hand, and swear to God, Dean feels all of fourteen when his stomach gives an excited lurch.

\---

            Sam is smart. He’s kind of a fucking nerd. He raises his hand three times during class and then pretty much runs away when Dean tries to talk to him afterwards.

            Dean smiles stupidly through the rest of the day. He actually goes to all the rest of his classes.

            Dean always walks home. He hasn’t gotten his dad to spring for a car yet, and his shitty job at Walmart gives a salary that adds up very, very slowly.

            Usually it’s some of the only time he has alone. He doesn’t bring people over to his house. He’s pretty sure John knows what Dean gets up to, but Dean doesn’t want to give him the opportunity to confirm it. He doesn’t want hookups thinking it _means_ anything, either, so he figures it’s just safer either way.

            This time though, Sam is walking right in front of him.

            Dean saw him immediately after they left school, a couple of yards ahead. They’ve been walking for two blocks and Dean’s trying to decide how to approach him.

            The kid is obviously not used to Dean’s brand of attention. How he isn’t with the cute little ass Dean has been staring at for two blocks, Dean really doesn’t know.

            He thinks with a heady little pulse to his groin that Sam is probably a virgin.

            Dean watches him walk for a little bit longer. He figures however he does it, he’s going to freak the kid out a little bit. He shrugs to himself.

            “Hey, Sam!” He calls out. In front of him, Sam glances behind him, sees Dean, and stops walking.

            “Me?”

            “Yeah, I thought that was you,” Dean says, innocent as can be. He half jogs to catch up to Sam, smiles winningly.

            “So how’d your first day treat you?”

            Sam just stares at Dean for a minute. He starts walking again, and shrugs uncomfortably, “It was fine, I guess.”

            Dean is five seconds away from saying “You know what else is fine?” But he stops himself. He nods interestedly, asks Sam about his classes.

            “Oh man, you got Maclin?” Dean groans, “I had her for Physics last year. Fucking nutcase.”

            Sam nods, a little less self-consciously, says quietly “Oh yeah, I know what you mean. She made me introduce myself and tell everyone my favorite science fact.”

            “No way! What’d you say?”

            “That quantum mechanics says, somewhere, in some universe, I don’t have to go to high school.”

            Dean cackles.

For the first time, Sam smiles a little, and Dean wants to lick his sweet little dimples.

When they come to the fork in their road, Sam nods his head to the left, murmurs, “I’m this way,” Dean hesitates for a moment.

            He thinks about walking Sam home. He thinks little virgin Sam would like to be kissed at his front door.

            He decides against it, though. Dean’s playing the long game here. He’s not going to risk his chances. When he finally makes a move on Sam, Dean’s going to have Sam _loving it,_ not tensed to run halfway through.

            “I’m this way,” Dean says, moving to walk the other way “You better sit with me at lunch tomorrow. Don’t go back to thinking you’re too cool for me.”

            When he looks back, he doesn’t think he’s flattering himself when he thinks Sam looks a little flushed.

\---

            At lunch the next day, Sam does in fact glance over at Dean’s table. It’s quick, and Dean never would’ve noticed if his eyes weren’t glued to Sam.

            As it is, he sees Sam’s nervously eye the table, pause, and then move quickly to the back of the cafeteria. Dean’s up from his table so fast he jostles his lunch tray.

            “Whoa, what’s got you so jumpy?” Bela asks. She’d been talking to Castiel. Dean hadn’t heard a word of their conversation.

            “It’s Sam,” Castiel says serenely, “Dean has a crush.”

            That was the thing about Cas. So fucking perceptive about some things it drove Dean crazy. He’d actually stopped fucking around with Dean long before Dean even figured out he wasn’t interested anymore.

            “I do not,” Dean hisses, but the rest of the table is already chuckling.

            “Aw, you’re blushing!” Lisa coos.

            “Fuck you guys,” Dean says, picking up his tray, “And not literally. Not ever literally.”

            “How will we survive?” Bela cries. Cassie snickers.

            Dean turns away with a huff. Fucking Bela. Fucking Cas.

            He doesn’t think for a moment about not going to eat with Sam, even if his friends are being assholes about it.

            He scans the cafeteria. Sam’s settled at a mostly empty table near the window. He’s reading a book, so focused on it that Dean thinks he probably just doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone.

            It works for Dean.

            “Sammy!” He shouts when he’s about ten feet away. Sam actually jumps before whipping his head around.

            Dean waves and he finds himself grinning without even trying.

            “Dean,” Sam says, voice almost a squeak. Maybe Dean was a little too high energy. He tries to tone it down.

            “My friends are being fucking dicks. You made the right choice, sitting back here.”

            Sam shrugs, scoots down a little closer to the window when Dean places his tray close to Sam’s. Dean frowns, sits down.

            “What’re you reading?” Dean asks.

            Sam blushes immediately, flips the book over so Dean can’t see the title.

            “Oh, man, now you _have_ to tell me.” Dean says, reaches over and scrambles with Sam for a minute, slapping at his hands. He crows as he gets his hands on the book, turns it over.

            “Pride and Prejudice?”

            Dean tries not to laugh but he can’t help it. Sam’s got the pissy-est look on his face and he’s glaring at the table, not meeting Dean’s eyes.

            “Dude! You can’t read this shit at school!”

            “Why not?” Sam finally says something, apparently it burst out of him because even he looks a little surprised.

            “It’s fucking Jane Austen, dude,” Dean says, “People are going to fucking murder you.”

            Sam’s eyes narrow, “Yeah, not like I haven’t dealt with that before.”

            Dean doesn’t know what’s happened to this kid to make him like this—thin veneer of anger to cover a guy who gets offended about being mocked for Pride and Prejudice, but the package together evokes these weird feelings of wanting to protect the stupid kid and wanting to fuck him over and over again, get him fucking dirty.

            “Yeah, well, you can’t sit alone _and_ read Jane Austen,” Dean continues, pretending like he didn’t just get a flash of what having angry sex with Sam would be like. Probably a biter, Dean thinks, would mark up Dean’s back with his nails as Dean pounded into him.

            “That’s gonna get you double murdered.”

            “Double murdered?” Sam replies, incredulous.

            “Double murdered.” Dean replies. Toward the front of the cafeteria, the bell rings, indicating the end of lunch.

            “Guess there’s only one solution, since you love Mr. Darcy so much,” Dean says as he gathers his stuff, “You’ll sit with me from now on.”

            “That’s really not—“ Sam starts, but Dean waves him off. He’s going to see him in history, anyway. Let him stew on their conversation.

            On his way out of the cafeteria, Dean sees Benny. He’s leaning against the doorframe of the exit that leads to the soccer field, and he raises a single eyebrow at Dean’s greeting. 

            “Soccer practice got cancelled,” Benny says, “You down, sugar?”

            Dean almost rolls his eyes. Dean hates being called that, and the accent that used to sound hot now just sounds kind of fake.

            “Nah, I got class, man,”

            Benny laughs, “Since when did you care about class?”

            “Since now.”

            Benny nods, mouth pulling into a smirk that rubs Dean in all the wrong ways, “This got anything to do with that new kid—Sam? Doesn’t seem your style, Dean.”

            “What do you know about my style?”

            “Just, seems like you’re getting real friendly with him, that’s all.”

            Dean shouldn’t let it bother him. He’s friendly to _everyone._ It’s not like he’s a fucking douche to people he sleeps with, and Sam just needs a little extra encouragement, and it’s none of Benny’s fucking business, especially since he’s been avoiding Dean with an almost religious fervor up till this point.

            Still, Dean’s on edge, and he doesn’t want to talk about it, so he snaps, “My style is doing what I have to do to get the little virgin to spread his legs.”

            Benny’s smirk twitches a little, eyebrows hike a little higher. Dean turns to leave. What fucking _ever._ He’s going to history and he’s going to sit next to Sam and Benny is not getting laid today.

            Behind him, he hears Benny’s low, distinct chuckle. Dean rolls his eyes, keeps walking.

\---

            Dean almost regrets coming to class when the teacher announces a group project. Dean doesn’t have the greatest academic track record—not that he’s not smart, it’s just half the time he’s not in class to turn in his assignments—and in a school as small as his, word got around.

            So no one’s going to want to be his partner and Dean’s going to have to be the fucking loser who tells the teacher they don’t have a group.

            Then Dean has a moment of complete revelation. Not only does Sam not know about his academic track record—in fact, probably thinks Dean is pretty goddamn sharp, in an honors class and showing up two days in a row—Dean also plans to show up for each and every team meeting.

            He meets Sam’s eyes after the announcement, smiles a little and Sam nods in return and Dean feels more triumphant than that one time Bela agreed to let him come on her cheerleading uniform.

            They talk out the specifics of it after class.

            “So, my house is a little crazy,” Sam says pointedly, “Is there somewhere else we can work?” 

            Dean thinks for a minute that it’s not what he usually does—not what he _ever_ does. But this is a group project, and Sam seems like the type who’d like a little ambience and, well, Dean just _wants_ to.

            “Yeah, we can work on it at my house,” Dean says. Sam smiles a little, and Dean thinks that Sam’s even going to make Tudor history sexy.

\---

            Sam is really fun to be around, and he’s really fucking hot, and Dean’s having a hard time remembering why he thought the whole waiting-to-make-a-move thing would be a drag.

            Sam’s been over to Dean’s house every school day for the past two weeks. Sam’s some kind of fucking boy genius, so they’d finished the project in three days, and since then, Dean’s just kind of kept inviting him over.

            It started because Sam had never seen the original Star Wars movies, only the prequels.

            “I just…didn’t get it?” Sam offers at Dean’s groan, “Of course you didn’t, Sammy. Oh my God, I’m so glad you met me in time to help you.”

            And Dean had sat next to Sam on his bed as the movie played and he’d really kind of just enjoyed it. Sam kept a running commentary and the kid was a little fucking bitch who thought he was way funnier than he was, and when the first movie ended, Dean popped in the next one, and settled in next to Sam’s warm weight again.

            Dean walked Sam home after they finished the final movie, listened to Sam gripe about Darth Vader’s motivations making no sense, and he had the weirdest fucking urge to grad Sam’s hand or something. Instead, he elbows him in the side, “You’re such a fucking nerd.”

            “Says the guy with extended versions of every Stars Wars movie.”

            Dean scoffs and tries to hide his smile by looking at the ground.

            After that, Sam had tried to get Dean into The Lord of the Rings, which Dean had hated, but he’d kind of enjoyed Sam talking about the mythology from the books. After that, they’d just spent a couple days just fucking around, talking and shit, and Dean doesn’t want to admit that it’s almost more fun than the movies, and that talking to Sam is easier than it is to talk to anyone else, and that Dean glows a little bit every time he sees Sam come out of his shell more. It’s true though, and Dean considers, briefly, not fucking everything up with sex. Sam’s probably the best friend he’s ever had—and he hates how lame that sounds—but he has never clicked with someone like this before.

            He considers it briefly. But then every time he gets Sam to smile and he sees those dimples, or he catches himself staring too hard at Sam’s mouth, or those beautiful, blessed moments where Sam’s shirt rides up and Dean can see the cut of his hips—Dean’s resolve immediately turns to dust.

            Sam has even started sitting with Dean at lunch, tentatively perched on the end of the bench that Dean always sits on.

            Dean’s friends are thankfully normal and don’t scare the kid off, and after two weeks, Sam even opens up to them a little bit. Sam’s fucking cool, no matter what Dean says to his face, and he can actually hold a conversation with Castiel about whatever weird lore thing Cas is into that day, and when Bela fucks with him, Sam’s replies are fucking _biting._ Cassie thinks Sam is “fucking cute as fuck,” and Dean makes fun of her but like _yeah._

            It goes on for another couple of days, then Thursday of that week Dean’s walking with Sam to history and Sam asks him what he’s doing that weekend.

            “Shit, I dunno,” Dean shrugs, tries to think if his dad has any shit jobs lined up at the shop that no one else wants to do, but can’t think of anything.

            “So no big plans?” Sam asks.

            “Not that I can think of.”

            “Yeah, me either.”

            Dean feels all lit up inside because it’s not like he’s impervious to hints. He gets subtle—sure, mostly he gets subtle when someone uses another word for penis—but he’s fucking astute sometimes. Sam is sort of, kind, of, inviting _himself_ over. Dean smiles a little bit. Sam _likes_ around him. Dean’s plan is completely, totally, foolproof. What’s more likely to get a dork like Sam in the mood than Dean inviting him over on a Saturday night and making a move?

            “Well, if we’re going to be fucking lame, we can at least be fucking lame together,” Dean says.

            “Oh, are you asking me to come over?” Sam says innocently “I don’t know, Dean, my schedules suddenly filled up.”

            Dean laughs, “You’re such a little bitch,” and shoves Sam down the hall.

            Sam turns and smiles at him, face pinking up, and Dean thinks it’s kind of cute how Sam still gets all red whenever Dean touches him.

            Dean walks with Sam home later that day, and they figure out the plans. Dean’s dad likes to go out with his friend’s Saturday evening so Dean, completely at random, suggests that time and Sam agrees.

            Dean doesn’t think it could’ve gone better, ends with him having to go his separate way and saying “Don’t stand me up, Sammy.”

Sam’s face lights up and he nods in his eager, dorky way and waves goodbye. Dean wonders what his face looked like because a minute later he has to will down something that feels like the same dorky smile. Which is completely ridiculous. Dean doesn’t do dumb smiles like Sam. He’s not some blushing virginal flower.

Whatever. He doesn’t let himself focus on it for too long.

\---

            Saturday evening rolls around and Dean finds himself rubbing his palms on the legs of his jeans, sitting at the bench in the hallway that leads to the front door. He doesn’t know why his dumb body is being such a fucking spaz about this—but his heart is beating so rapidly that it feels like it’s in his throat and he can’t help but compulsively check his phone every few minutes.

            Hanging out with Sam is so easy. Being with Sam is fun without Dean trying. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever really had to not try so easily before, so he doesn’t know why fucking Sam will be any different and that’s not exactly what he’s worried about anyway. He’s worried about—well, he’s purposefully not thinking about what he’s actually worried about. He’s very resolutely letting the nerves wash over him in a mind-numbing wave so he doesn’t have to focus on anything too hard.

            He told Sam to get there are 6:30 and Sam, Dean has realized, is a prompt kind of guy. He told Dean once, when Dean called him a thirty-two-year old soccer mom, that “manners don’t have an age or gender, Dean.”

            Sam is a fucking dork. Dean doesn’t know why he likes having the kid around.

            So, when it’s 6:28, Dean looks out the window to see if he sees Sam’s scrawny body coming towards the house. Sure enough, Sam’s about a block away, backpack slung over his shoulder. A _backpack,_ Jesus Christ, does Sam really not have any idea what’s going on here? Dean wonders if he should reformulate his plan.

            Then he finds himself ducking behind the frame of the door so Sam doesn’t see him, like, lurking or something equally appalling.

            Sam knocks sharply three times, and Dean counts to thirty before he lets himself open the door.

            “Sam! My man!” Dean exclaims, gesturing for Sam to come in. Dean pretends to notice Sam’s backpack for the first time, scoffs, “Did you think this was a study session?”

            Sam blushes bright red and shakes his head hastily, which, okay, weird. Dean really thought that they were comfortable enough with each other to be past the whole shy thing.

            Dean is totally okay with just hanging out with Sam tonight, putting the sex thing off till Sam is really, truly comfortable. Sure, he feels a little disappointed, but he figures it’ll be best for him when Sam’s most comfortable.

            Dean brings Sam up to his room. Sam dumps his backpack at the edge of the bed and seats himself.

            Dean and Sam argue about what to watch for a couple minutes—Sam’s real fucking insistent on the new Star Trek movies, which are completely mindless in Dean’s opinion—but Dean relents eventually. Easier just to give Sam what he wants. He doesn’t think about what’s Sam’s pleased little smile does to his stomach.

            They’re about ten minutes into the movie, side by side, in the same position they’d adopted the past couple of weeks, when Dean feels Sam’s leg press against his.

            Dean wonders if Sam needs to stretch, if he’s taking up too much space again, and shifts his leg to the side.

            A minute later, Sam bumps Dean’s foot with his own.

            Dean shrugs. It’s a small bed, and he can’t scoot over anymore, so Sam needs to control his fucking lanky, unruly limbs.

            Less than thirty seconds later Sam’s fingers graze the thigh of Dean’s jeans.

            Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, turns to look at Sam so rapidly that he almost fucking head-butts him when he whips his head around.

            Sam’s eyes are comically large, but then his head moves slowly back from where it lurched to avoid Dean’s insane, jerking movements, and Sam begins to lean closer and closer to Dean.

            Dean is fucking paralyzed up till the moment Sam tilts his head, and presses his lips softly against Dean’s.

            Then Dean is just lost. But at least he’s not lost in unfamiliar territory. This, at least, he knows.

            Except not really. Kissing Sam is unlike kissing anyone else has ever been. Kissing, for Dean, was always sort of a precursor to the main event. Like some shitty cartoon for kids that plays before a kickass actions movie or something. Dean’s not a poet.

            But this? This Dean feels like he can do forever. Sam kisses him like he loves it, he’s sucking on Dean’s bottom lip with an enthusiasm that Dean didn’t think Sam had for anything outside of dictionaries.

            Dean realizes, mind in a fog, that Sam is really fucking good at this. His tongue slides against Dean’s bottom lip and Dean groans, opens his mouth to let Sam tongue stroke his.

            The touch sends an excited spike of heat to his groin. Dean can’t help but groan into the kiss, and Sam responds, moving closer to Dean, tossing a leg over Dean so Sam can situate himself on his lap.

            Dean can tell he’s losing control of himself fast. He’s already started nipping at Sam’s lips, grinding uncontrollably against Sam’s body perched above him. He doesn’t know how Sam could get so close and not _know_ what he was going to do to Dean, but Dean is so fucking hard in his jeans that’s it’s almost painful not to move, not to give his aching cock some friction.

            Still, Dean pulls back, stops himself. He gasps in a breath and meets Sam’s eyes. They’re blown wide, pretty circle of hazel almost completely covered by black and, fuck, Sam’s mouth looks even hotter like this.

            Dean’s brain is a little fried, but he wants Sam to understand, to make sure that this is okay. But all he can really muster is a mostly breathless, “What?”

            Sam tilts his head, “What, what, Dean? Use your words.”

            Dean doesn’t know how Sam can still be a little shit at a time like this, “You kissed me,” Dean says stupidly. 

            “You invited me over when your dad wasn’t home,” Sam replies, “I thought it was clear there would be kissing.” Sam rolls his hips into Dean from above him, and Dean feels the hard line of his cock through his jeans, “More than kissing.”

            Dean is fucking dumbstruck.

            “You—you—“ Dean babbles—“You’re a virgin!”

            Above him Sam smiles, shrugs, “A willing student, though.”

            Dean tries to wrap his mind around what’s happening—his Sam—he tries it again, doesn’t think of Sam as his. Sam, the shy kid who could barely meet Dean’s eyes when Dean asked about his backpack, is completely blasé about losing his V-Card. Dean wonders if it’s some kind of bravado. Dean knows he was like this when he lost his, wouldn’t even admit to the girl that it was his first time.

            “Sam,” he says, tries to instill in his voice the seriousness of the situation, and not the arousal that wants to come to the surface, “Are you, like, aware of what sex entails?”

            Sam rolls his eyes, “I brought a backpack full of lube and condoms, so I’m pretty sure I’m sure, Dean.”

            Suddenly Sam’s reaction earlier makes a lot more sense.

            Dean just wants Sam to be really sure. He doesn’t want Sam to look back on this and regret it.

            “I just want to make sure you’ve thought about this,” he says, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty much all I think about. But. If you’re not ready.”

            Sam’s eyes soften from the slightly amused tone they had previously, and he leans forward and kisses Dean again.

            “I’ve thought about it a lot,” Sam says softly, “This is exactly how I’ve always wanted it to happen.”

            When Dean thinks about it, he’s kind of blown away by the fact that this is how he wishes his first time had happened, too. He kind of wishes it had been with Sam. Dean nods hard, shakes his head to try to rid himself of the thought and just focus on Sam and fucking him and making it so goddamn sweet for him.

            Dean leans forward and kisses Sam in a way that he knows make people fucking weak, and Sam sighs into the kiss in a way that feels like tension is draining out of him. Like he trusts himself in Dean’s hands.

            Before Dean knows it, he’s got himself and Sam stripped down. Sam’s kicking his boxers off his legs into a tangled heap at the bottom of the bed, and Dean is wrestling off his jeans and underwear all at once, balling them underneath him.

            Dean didn’t understand how hot Sam was before. He understood fucking _nothing._ What looked like lankiness under sweatshirts and too-large jeans is actually lean, sinewy muscle. His skin is smooth and tan, pinking up at his chest and stomach and his cock is fucking pretty. Somehow, Sam’s cock is the prettiest and hottest fucking thing Dean has ever seen. For a minute, Dean wonders why he ever goes for pussy.

            Then Dean has to get his hands on, wraps his fingers around it and strokes Sam a couple times, hard and fast—the perfect method. Dean’s done a lot of research.

            Sam moans and twitches under him. They’d changed positions as they maneuvered out of their clothing.

            Dean smiles and kisses Sam again, loves the sounds he makes. He slots his hips into the groove of Sam’s pelvis and grinds against it as he jerks Sam off.

            “Wait—Dean stop,” Sam pants after a few moments of the sound of skin and stroking and moans.

            Dean stops immediately. Just fucking freezes. “Did I hurt you?”

            Sam laughs, a heavy exhale against Dean’s skin and Dean, ridiculously, wants to somehow get closer to him.

            “No, I just,” Sam’s face goes red again, “I’m going to come,” he says quietly, “and I want to come with—with you inside me.”

            Dean makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. He clears his throat, “Whatever you want, Sammy,” he says, and he leans forward and kisses him again.

            As it turns out, Sam didn’t actually _need_ to bring his own lube and condoms, but Dean appreciates the thought, he really does, so he tries to make Sam feel useful as he fumbles to get the backpack open and get the supplies out without his lips breaking contact with Sam.

            Dean figures it’s because he’s had enough practice fumbling condoms out of backpacks that he’s able to do so fairly successfully.

            Dean pops open the lube, gets his fingers coated, and gently works a hand underneath Sam, stroking the warm back of thighs with the hand not coated in lube before patting his ass lightly, encouraging him to tilt his hips upward.

            Sam obeys immediately, so fucking responsive. Dean sucks on his neck in praise, loves how the taste of Sam is more concentrated there, and works a single finger into Sam’s hole.

            Sam tenses up as Dean works his finger in and out of him, so for a moment Dean’s worried he’s hurting him, even though he tilted his finger just right, so Sam should be feeling nothing but pleasure.

            “You okay?” Dean asks, and Sam face looks wide and shocky, mouth a pink O as he nods frantically.

            “More.”

            Sam fucking loves it. Dean’s three fingers deep a few minutes later, and Sam’s meeting every thrust with his hips working downwards onto the fingers. He keeps up a constant stream of whimpers and pleas for, “Harder, Dean, oh my God, right there, _please.”_

His cock is leaking against his belly, having gone from pink to a deep purple. He looks closer to coming than when Dean was working him with his hand.

            For his part, seeing Sam like that, seeing how much Sam fucking _loved_ something in his hole—and this was just the first time, Dean can’t even _imagine—_ has Dean pretty on edge himself. His cock is throbbing, brain screaming at him to just slide into Sam’s impossibly tight heat and just _take._

Sam’s not making it easy to resist, either. Three fingers isn’t enough for him, apparently, because after Dean fucks him with them for a while, his pleas change to “Not enough, Dean, want your cock. Please, Dean, I’m ready, I’m ready.”

            “Fucking slut aren’t you, baby?” Dean growls as he loses all resolve, slides a condom onto his throbbing cock.

            Sam nods beneath him, gasps a breathy “Yes, fuck, yes,” in reply.

            “You need my cock, huh?” Dean asks as he lines the head of it up with Sam’s hole. Sam groans, works his hips back, tries to force the head inside of him.

            “Don’t worry, baby,” Dean says, voice so low it’s almost a whisper, “I’m gonna take care of you.”  

            He slides into Sam slowly, Sam whining and working his hips back the entire time, begging Dean for more each time Dean tries to stop to give him time to adjust. Between their stomachs, Sam’s dick to leaving a sticky, hot mess between them, so Dean knows it’s all fucking genuine; Sam loves Dean’s cock in his hole that fucking much.

            Dean tries to go slow at first, but Sam eggs him on, screwing his hips back against every thrust, begging Dean like he’s fucking desperate,  
            “So good, so good,” he pants, “More, oh my god, Dean, harder, _please_ , I can take it.”

            Dean gives it to him harder, pounds into him so hard that Dean would be worried if it didn’t feel so fucking good, if Sam didn’t feel hot and perfect and clenching around him and Dean is afraid that’s he going to come. It comes up on him at an alarming speed, has heat curling tight in his stomach and he gasps, works a hand between him and Sam and strokes Sam once, twice, three times. Sam comes with a shout, jizz pulsing hot and sticky onto their stomachs.

            He comes hard too, hole clenching tight around Dean for long, long seconds before Dean thrusts one more and the pleasure coiling in his stomach explodes, pleasure ripping through his body as Sam’s hole milks him through his orgasm.

            When he’s finishing, he’s actually panting, tries to pull out of Sam as gently as possible.

            Sam makes a little whimper of pain, but he curls closer to Dean when Dean lies down beside him.

            Dean pushes up against him. He realizes, weirdly, that he’s never actually done this before. He refuses to call it cuddling, or what fucking ever, but it’s nice.

            He feels boneless, more tired than he’s ever really been from sex, and stroking a pattern down Sam’s back is soothing him closer and closer to sleep.

            Before he nods off he shakes himself, nudges Sam in his side with his fingers.

            “Hey,” he says softly, Sam makes a confused, sleepy noise. Dean feels kind of guilty, poor kid was probably already knocked out.

            “You okay?” He asks.

            “Yeah,” Sam replies after a pause, “Yeah, I think for a first time that was pretty fucking spectacular.”

            Dean grins at the ceiling, “Not just for a first time, Sammy.”

            Sam rolls over to face him then, and he looks so fucking happy, just—glowing, is kind of the only word coming to Dean’s mind. And Dean’s so glad that he said it because Dean’s never seen Sam look so happy.

            “Really?” Sam whispers.

            “Really, you fucking nerd,” Dean replies, and Sam nips him on his bottom lip, tucks his head under Dean’s chin, and tells him, “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep.”

\--- 

            Sam, like with everything else, is a quick study. After their first time, Sam is eager to learn and Dean can hardly keep his hands off of him.

            After school is pretty much the same as it was beforehand, except with a lot more sex. Dean suggests they start the Narnia movies because “It’s all pretty much the Bible but with lions,” so they don’t actually have to pay attention. Sam was on the right track with the Star Trek thing, and they need some kind of noise dilutor so they’re a little more protected from Dean’s dad.

            “I wonder if sucking cock with a bible themed movie is somehow a double-sin.” Sam breathes as Dean works a hand into Sam’s jeans. Sam thrusts forward as Dean gets a hand around him, starts to stroke.

            “I don’t know,” Dean groans a little later. Sam’s halfway down the bed, Dean’s cock in his pretty pink mouth, sucking him wet and hard and perfect, “You sure look pretty fucking sinful.”

            Sam laughs a little bit and the feelings of the vibrations around Dean’s cock are fucking orgasmic. Not metaphorically. Dean comes down Sam’s throat in heavy pulses of pure pleasure, and Sam works him through it, smiles and pulls off with a pop and swallows.

            Dean fucking loves that. He didn’t even need to tell Sam it was sexy, it was always just Sam’s first instinct. After they’d fucked for the first time, Dean had tried to coach Sam through his first blowjob—showing him first, of course, because nothing is a better teacher—and Sam had been sloppy but enthusiastic and his pink, embarrassed face as he sucked Dean’s cock had Dean coming in a few minutes flat.

            Then Sam had just swallowed, and Dean had felt a painful rush of heat coil in his spent cock.

            The kid was a natural. 

            Dean feels a weird mixture of pride and total, overwhelming lust when Sam comes the first time, just from Dean pounding into him at the right angle. Comes _un-fucking-touched,_ gasping Dean’s name in surprise as he jerks all over the sheets. Dean feels his hole clench around him and fucking loses it when he realizes what’s happening, three more thrusts and he’s fucking done.

            Dean’s counting, and even though Sam, for some reason, refuses to fuck around on campus, they’ve still had sex twenty-three times in the two short weeks following the most spectacular debut Dean has ever been part of. Dean is kind of giddy about it.

            He figures that the sex thing before was just a fluke. Dean wasn’t tired of sex with Sam, even with how often they did it. If anything, Dean wanted to fuck Sam more after each time, see how else he could make Sam come apart, hear those sounds again, try to get Sam begging and desperate.

            Dean figures he just needed the right person. Which makes him shudder when he thinks it, but he guesses it’s as true as anything. Sam is an amazing fuck, and he’s fun to hang out with, and as far as fuck buddies go, Sam is absolutely a cut above the rest. A big fucking cut.

            The only thing that’s sort of bugging him—and he knows it shouldn’t be, because who fucking cares—are his friends.

            It’s not like Dean tells them about hooking up with Sam or anything. Yes, beforehand he had no problem telling Bela that Cas gave better head, but something about talking about Sam feels dirty. Maybe it’s just because Sam’s by far the best lay out of the bunch of them. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

But they somehow figure it out when Dean strokes a thumb down Sam’s neck at one lunch before they have to present their project. Presenting makes Sam _nervous_ okay? And Dean’s a decent guy.

            But his friends eyes light on it like it’s some kind of show for their goddamn entertainment or something and as soon as they get Dean alone they’re all cooing and aww-ing and it makes Dean uncomfortable.

            “We’re just fucking around!” Dean insists, “I don’t know why you’re acting like this is some major development in my life! I’ve done it with all of you!”

            “You definitely never gave me a massage when I was nervous.” Bela says.

“Agreed.” Castiel says with a nod.

            “It’s okay to like Sam, Dean,” Lisa says in a quiet, understanding way that actually embarrasses Dean more than anyone else, “Sam’s a great guy.”

            “Yeah, he is.” Cassie chimes in, “So don’t fuck with him. I’m so serious about this.”

            Dean splutters, “Fuck with him? What do you think I’m doing here, Cassie?”

            Cassie breathes in deeply, and with forced patience says, “You’re fucking Sam right now, Dean. I’m telling you, don’t fuck with him. Do you understand?”

            Dean looks at the rest of his friends for support or some kind of explanation for why Cassie has suddenly fucking lost it but they all look at him expectantly and Dean just shrugs in defeat and nods.

            Because, who really cares if his friends are all fucking weirdo’s when he has another, better weirdo to hang with all day at school anyway. And after school, too. And on Saturdays. Sam can never come over on Sundays, but Dean’s texts him so often during the day, stupid jokes and pictures of Dean’s dick which Sam replies to with “Sorry, who is this?”, so Dean only misses him a little bit.

            Dean doesn’t even miss fucking around at school. In all honesty, what he has going with Sam is pretty damn perfect, and Sam seems happy with it too. Dean doesn’t know why he didn’t figure something like this out earlier. There’s a nagging thought in the back of his mind that this wouldn’t be the same with anyone else.

            Dean honestly doesn’t know how things could get any better. Everything is the same as before, Sam’s just as easy to be around except now there’s fucking mind blowing sex and everything just feels like it’s slotted into place.

            Until.

            Dean and Sam are going at it, no big surprise there. Sam’s on all fours, arching his back as Dean slams into him, begging for it like he always does. Everything is getting hotter and tension is building in the pit of Dean’s stomach and then beneath him Sam comes with a whimper, clenching around Dean, and Dean follows him right over the edge.

            Sam collapses underneath Dean so Dean wraps his arms around him as he curls boneless to the side, arranges him to spoon against Dean’s stomach.

            Sam _hmms_ happily and wriggles, getting himself comfortable, then he turns and pecks Dean on the mouth. They’d traded hand jobs earlier, and after coming twice, Dean has learned that Sam usually needs a little nap.

            “You tired, baby?” He asks.

            Sam nods, yawns, and sleepily murmurs, “Mhm, night, love you.”

            And then the little shit is just fucking out while Dean’s left more wide-awake than he’s ever been in his life.

            _Shit._

Dean doesn’t move his arms because—well he doesn’t want to wake Sam up. Which is maybe the fucking problem. He was too nice to the kid, he was too good of a guy and now his friends-with-benefits thing has done the one thing Dean never, ever does and it’s gotten feelings involved.

            Dean fucking hates dealing with that shit. Serves him right, getting involved with a virgin. And with a virgin that didn’t know about Dean—Dean realizes now that begging his friends to keep quiet about his philandering ways was a weird move on his part, a fucking stupid move, why did he ever even think that was a good idea?

            And yes, the sex is amazing. But Dean doesn’t—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam. He doesn’t want to risk something. He doesn’t want to be attached to someone. He doesn’t want to examine his own stupid fucking repressed feelings and deal with this shit because things with Sam are supposed to be _easy._ Dean gets sort of pissed, lying there with his arms around Sam, that Sam had to go and fuck everything up.

            Dean wonders if Sam even knows he said it. Maybe he was just drifting off and it slipped out and Dean can still fix things. Dean can put things back the way they’re supposed to be. Which—which Dean thinks he can do that. He can make it so Sam and him can still hang out, and still have incredible sex. Probably less hanging out and less incredible sex but Dean can work with that. Sam’s a smart kid, Dean figures it won’t take a lot to get it across to him, to calm whatever little crush the kid thinks he has on Dean, and just let everything fall back in the place it’s supposed to be.

            When Sam wakes up, Dean’s already out of bed, fully dressed, playing GameCube on the floor in front of his bed.

            “You okay down there?” Sam asks, flopping his body over to peer down at Dean.

            Dean nods absently, “Yeah, just really into this game. You can let yourself out?”

            Sam makes an _uh_ sound like he’s a little confused, says, “You’re so fucking lazy, man, honestly,” and leans down to peck Dean on the lips, “Yeah, I can see myself out. Please, don’t trouble yourself,”

            He walks out the room and Dean hears a heavy thudding on the stairs.

            “I’ve fallen,” Sam yells from the entryway, “But please, do not lift a finger to aid me. I would drag my mangled legs to the hospital before I would trouble you.”

            Then Dean hears the front door swing open and he’s annoyed when he finds himself having to willfully smother a smile.

\---

            The next day at school, Dean doesn’t meet Sam outside the gym like he usually does. When he thinks about not doing it, he has to wonder what possessed him to start in the first place.

            Instead, Dean goes straight to the lunchroom, and he doesn’t go through the line with Sam like he usually does, either. He’s packed himself a lunch and he immediately sits at his table at the bench facing away from the lunch line.

Cassie, Bela, Cas, and Lisa file in slowly, raised eyebrows at Dean sitting there alone. It irritates Dean to no end when he sees Lisa nudge Cas, and mouths “Sam?” Like Sam is any of her goddamn business.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Bela finally asks.

            “I don’t have a boyfriend,” Dean snaps, and he must sound as pissed as he feels because no one else makes any comments.

            Despite his studied chewing of each of his bites of food, Dean can still tell when Sam approaches the table. Across the table, Cassie’s face brightens up, and she waves.

            Dean keeps chewing. He hears Sam make a quiet noise behind him because—because he always sits next to Dean. And Dean’s not scooting over to make room.

            “Dean?” Sam says after a long, quiet moment.

            “What?” Dean grunts, wants to go ahead and make Sam say it, say “Can I sit next to you?” so Dean can make it fucking clear that they are not _involved._ They are not that fucking couple that sits next to each other every lunch and nothing about them is going to be permanent.

            Sam doesn’t say anything, though. Dean hates that the kid is probably smart enough to already figure something’s up.

            The air is thick with tension; Dean can just feel Sam standing awkwardly behind him, hesitating, not sure what he’s supposed to do. Dean has to stop himself from just scooting over and grabbing Sam’s wrist and pulling him down next to him. Because that’s not—Dean can’t give that to Sam, he just.

            Cassie makes a sound of disgust across the table “Sit next to me, Sam,” she says, and physically elbows Castiel to the edge of the bench, makes room for him.

            Dean hears Sam gulp behind him, and his heart constricts tightly when Sam mutters, “No, it’s fine.”

            Dean watches from under his eyelashes as Sam rounds the table, walks to the back of the cafeteria, and sits at the empty table near the exit.

            “Oh, Dean” Castiel says, sounds like he’s fucking disappointed or something. Everyone else is quiet.

            “ _Me,”_ Dean spits, “What the fuck is wrong with _you?_ With all of you? Why are you acting like you give a shit?”

            Dean stands up from the table and grabs his stuff, crumbles it in his hands, “I can’t fucking believe this.”

            Dean storms away, out of the cafeteria, and when his stupid fucking eyes can’t help but steal a glance at the table near the back, Sam is looking right back.

            Dean can feel himself flush. He jerks his eyes back, looks straight ahead.

            Dean’s doing this for _everyone’s_ own good. Sam shouldn’t have to—Dean can’t—

            Dean figures his so called fucking friends won’t be any good for the next part of his plan. He wonders where he can find Benny.


	2. Chapter 2

Benny is more than eager to help Dean out.

            “Sure thing, darling,” he drawls, loops an arm around Dean’s shoulder, “I knew some clueless virgin couldn’t interest you for long.”

            Dean grits his teeth and wills himself not to duck out of the Benny’s grasp, let’s Benny lead him towards the janitor’s closet and drag him inside.

            Benny’s always had been an aggressive kind of guy—fucks like he’s fighting—and he bites at Dean’s lips more than he actually kisses him. He kind of manhandles Dean, gets a hand down his pants and makes a noise when he finds that Dean’s not even a little bit hard.

            “Need a little extra help, sugar?” He growls, jerking Dean roughly.

            Dean doesn’t feel turned on. He hasn’t since Benny got his hands on him. He feels a little bit sick, to be honest. The whole thing—the dirty janitor’s closet, Benny’s hot breath on his jaw as he sucks and bites at his throat—all of it is making him tenser and tenser and not in anything approaching a good way.

            Nothing about it feels right. Benny’s hands are too big and his stubble is scratching Dean’s face and he _smells_ wrong too. When he bites at Dean’s mouth, Dean can’t help but notice that Benny even tastes wrong. Dean doesn’t reciprocate at all, he can’t bring himself to, and then Benny says, “Can that boy give you this, Dean?” and Dean can’t stop himself, he’s pushing Benny’s hands off of him.

            “Stop,” he says, stepping away from Benny’s too rough hands. Benny reaches for him again, so Dean turns and snaps, “Fucking stop, Benny.”

            He shoves his dick back in his pants, pulls the zipper up a little frantically, wanting a barrier. He rubs a hand over his face.

            Benny is staring at him, eyes narrowed, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

            Dean shakes his head. He feels off-kilter, still not really wanting to talk to Benny, let alone still be with him in this shitty, too-hot closet.

            “Sorry—I just—“ Dean struggles. Benny makes an annoyed noise, “I never thought I’d see the day.”

            Dean doesn’t like his tone, doesn’t like what he’s implying, “Fuck,” Dean mutters. He just wants out of this entire awful situation, shrugs another apology to Benny and pushes his way out of the closet. Even outside the closet, Dean still can’t get himself to breathe normally. He feels like he’s panicking which is ridiculous. What he was doing with Benny was the most normal thing in the world for Dean. It’s what he’s used to, what’s been his comfort zone for years.

            But here he is, feeling like he’s too sweaty and like he’s going to fucking vomit.

            Dean needs to be distracted. He needs to not be here. Dean scrubs a hand through his hair and turns to head toward his classroom. He knows it's kind of counterproductive—he acknowledges it with a grim annoyance—but he feels gross and off put and all he really wants is to see Sam.

Deans only about fifteen minutes late to class, which Dean doesn't think will be a big deal. His teacher should be used to it. But the past couple of weeks Dean has been downright prompt, showing up with Sam who insists on being on time, and even raising his hand just so he could bug Sam by beating him to the answer. He’s a little surprised when he enters and the teacher makes a soft _tsk_ sound, "nice of you to join us, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean scans the room—Sam’s sitting in his usual spot, and he's got his backpack slung over the spot usually occupied by Dean. Saving his seat. Dean smiles despite himself, nods at Sam who rolls his eyes.

Dean sits as quietly as he can while the teacher continues lecturing. Sam leans over "Were you somewhere getting over being a total asshole?"

Dean scoffs, "Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean’s glad that Sam doesn’t seem really mad about it—Dean was sort of worried he laid it on too thick—but he can’t help but think that it didn’t get through to Sam. Dean swallows, tries to think how else he can get the idea across and still have Sam come over on Saturday. Dean doesn’t really remember what he did on weekends beforehand, and the idea of Sam not coming over during the week already has him facing hours and hours of boredom.

Dean pauses, wonders if maybe he hints at what almost happened with Benny, keep the weird nausea thing out of the story—Sam will probably be kind of upset, but if Dean does it delicately.

Dean meets Sam’s eyes again, but Sam isn’t looking at him. His eyes are glued to Dean’s neck. He looks upset. So fucking upset that his mouth is pinched tight and his eyes look a little watery and Dean instantly panics. Whatever’s making Sam _this_ upset Dean’s going to fix fucking immediately. Sam’s face is making Dean’s heart clench painfully and Dean is two seconds away from asking Sam what the problem is when something clicks.

Benny. His neck. Sucking, biting. Dean smacks his hand over the fucking hickey instantly, like hiding it is going to do any good, but Sam just tears his eyes away and stares resolutely at his hands.

“Sam—“ Dean starts, a little louder than he intended. He hates how his tone sounds, like he’s apologizing for something. He and Sam weren’t _exclusive,_ he shouldn’t have to feel guilty about this but he does. He feels like the biggest piece of shit and all he wants is to rewind fifteen minutes and stop the whole thing from happening. He wants to murder Benny. Seriously? A hickey? He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but he tries.

“I don’t care,” Sam says dully, cutting Dean off.

“I didn’t—“ but the teacher asks a question and Sam’s hand shoots up and physically leans away from Dean. It doesn’t make any fucking difference, but just the action bothers Dean.

After class, Dean tries to grab Sam’s wrist before Sam darts away but Sam wrenches it out of his grasp.

Dean sits there for a minute, stunned. He feels terrible. Sam is fucking hurt and Dean’s the cause of it and this wasn’t what Dean intended—he never thought about what it would feel like when he saw Sam’s reaction. It feels awful, and Dean tries to comfort himself by telling himself he’ll catch Sam after school. He’ll clear the whole thing up and Sam will be back over by Saturday. Dean doesn’t even really care if Sam wants to talk about feelings or some shit, Dean finds that the idea of dealing with that is a hell of a lot less scary than the way Sam’s reaction just made Dean feel.

After school, Dean will get this straightened out. He repeats that to himself through the rest of the day. It doesn’t ever sound convincing.

\---

            To Dean’s complete surprise, Sam is waiting for him to walk home. Dean does a double take, takes in Sam leaning against Dean’s locker, face flushed down to his neck, in a way that Dean recognizes as synonymous with Sam being nervous.

            “Uh, hi,” Dean starts tentatively. He’s not sure what reaction he’s going to get from Sam. He’s almost bracing himself for a punch, is ready to take it, actually. It’s not like it’s undeserved.

            Instead, Sam looks up from under his bangs like the first time Dean met him—like when he was afraid Dean was making fun of him.

            “So you and Benny are pretty close,” Sam says quietly. There’s not any anger there, and Dean’s cautions immediately crumble. Sam just sounds fucking young and upset and Dean doesn’t want to talk about this with him.

            “Not really,” Dean says, “He’s not important.”

            Sam nods jerkily, “But I talked to him,” he says, “Well, he talked to me. After class.”

            Dean can feel himself frowning. Benny had no reason to talk to Sam; he should leave Sam the fuck alone. Dean tries to scan his mind to come up with what damage could come from a conversation like that and what he comes up with is _a whole fuckton._

            “Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, eyes trained on Dean’s face, “He,” Sam struggles for the words for a moment, “Explained things to me.”

            Dean’s eyes narrow, “Explained what things?”

            Sam licks his lips nervously, “Just, you know. Why this whole thing started. And what you like and, um, just,”

            Dean is confused. He has no fucking idea what Sam’s talking about, he never prepared himself for this kind of reaction. He kind of wishes Sam would scream at him, because then at least he’d know what’s going on. Instead, he’s a little panicked as Sam takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry.”

            “What?” Dean squawks.

            “I get it. Benny told me what you said, about—about me being a virgin, or whatever and what you’re like and I’m sorry that I read into things and made you uncomfortable.”

            “What?” Dean repeats, still trying to process what’s going on, still stuck on the fact that Benny told Sam about the stupid fucking virgin thing and that Sam just accepted it. Dean doesn’t know why Sam isn’t angrier. Dean doesn’t like that Benny’s telling Sam what Dean is like. That’s not what it was about with Sam. Dean can’t reconcile what Sam was about, but thinking of it being distilled in that one ugly little sentence makes his stomach sink.

            Sam still hasn’t been able to meet Dean’s eyes for any extended amount of time, and he’s shifting back and forth anxiously. Every word he’s saying sounds like it’s been rehearsed.

            “So, I get it now. And I’m never going to be comfortable with—um, Benny said you like fucking around in a classroom before a teacher gets there. Which is fucking dumb. But maybe we could do like, behind the bleachers or something?”

            “Hey, wait, Sam,“ Dean wants to tell Sam that he’s being ridiculous. That was Benny told him was totally out of line. He wants Sam’s voice to stop sounding like it does—hurt and stilted but Sam smiles at him hopefully and Dean thinks about it for a moment.

            He kind of figured Sam would be hurt at first. He fucking hates how he did it, and he hates that Sam took it so hard but—but wasn’t this what he wanted in the first place?

            “Uh,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, “I’ve got a little time before my dad thinks I’ll be home.”

            Sam nods, face relaxing a little bit, “Great. Awesome. Okay, lead the way.”

            Dean reaches down to take Sam’s hand, lead him to the same janitor’s closet from earlier, but Sam gently slips his hand out Dean’s grasp, smiles and hunches his shoulders a little when Dean casts him a look.

            Dean doesn’t say anything. He sucks Sam off in the closet and thrusts against his own hand till he comes. The sex is good—Dean could never have gotten off like that with anyone else, he knows that for a fact. He’s glad Sam is still on board; he knows he should be recognizing that but.

            Something about Sam hastily tucking himself back in his jeans afterwards, closet space too small for Dean to really touch him, it makes the whole thing less satisfying. After Dean’s come, all he really wants to do is get out of the dirty fucking closet that Sam has never wanted to fuck around in till now, and take Sam back to his bedroom.

            He guides Sam out with a hand on the small of his back, but when he starts navigating Sam towards the path they usually take home together, Sam shrugs out of his grasp.

            “Got to meet with a teacher,” Sam says by way of explanation. Dean nods, frowns. He walks home alone, playing back the day and what happened with Sam. Dean doesn’t know why he feels like he fucked up, but the rock in the pit of his stomach grows every second he spends lying on his too-large bed, thinking about how weird it was to hook up with Sam without kissing him. 

\---

            Sam starts avoiding him at school. Aside from their brief trips to the football field—Dean doesn’t like fucking Sam in the closet, the anxious feeling from when he first sucked Sam off there permeates the place—Dean hardly interacts with him.

            Dean’s not sure where Sam sits at lunch anymore. Cassie and Lisa ask him about it and Dean shrugs off their concerned murmurs, but the day afterwards, Dean stations himself at the end of the lunch line, plans to intercept Sam and bring him back to where he’s supposed to sit.

            Sam never comes through. Dean goes back to his table in a shitty mood, and Bela too casually asks him if Sam is sick.

            “I don’t know,” Dean replies, and it bothers him. He doesn’t know where Sam is; he has no idea what’s going on with him.

            In history, Sam has moved halfway across the room. He doesn’t so much as glance in Dean’s direction, just keeps raising his hands, answering questions, and sprinting out the door when class is over.

            Dean has approached Sam twice to head to the football field and Sam has nodded and quietly walked out with Dean. The sex is still good—Sam still wants it bad, still makes pretty sounds when he’s right about to come—but afterwards, Sam rolls away from Dean, gets up, straightens himself out and heads back to the school.

            It’s been going on for about a week. It’s driving Dean kind of crazy. Sam won’t talk to him. Sure, if Dean corners him or something, Sam will shyly mutter a few words. Dean tried to talk to him on the walk home once, and Sam had shrugged his way through the conversation, broken paths with Dean as quickly as possible.

            After that, Dean could never tell when and how Sam got home, because Dean stopped seeing him.

            It’s bugging Dean. If he’s being honest, it’s doing a little bit more than bug him. Dean feels like shit. Every day when he sees Sam purposefully avoid him, every night where he goes and sits on his bed and thinks about how the whole evening would be more fun if Sam were there, it’s all adding up to put Dean in a perpetually shitty mood.

            At work, Dean is snippy with customers. At school his friends barely ask him about Sam anymore because all Dean does is snap at them and continue to sit sullenly.

            “You weren’t a party before but now you’re a fucking chore,” Bela says meanly, one day after Dean tells her to leave him the fuck alone.

His dad yells at him one evening because of Dean’s attitude, and though a chew-out from his dad usually sets Dean straight for a couple days, this one just makes him frustrated and edgy. It ends with him shouting back at John just as loud, storming out the house to sit on the sidewalk till he thinks his dad has gone to bed.

Most of his friends have given up on him. Castiel shakes his head sadly every time Dean sits silently through another lunch, while Bela whisper what Dean is sure are unflattering things in his ear. Lisa has boyfriend now, and has brought him to sit at the table with them. They talk lowly to each other most of the lunch period, and touch each other’s fucking hands, and the whole display just serves to piss Dean off even more. He feels like they’re rubbing his fucking face in it.

Cassie probably still annoys him the least. She sits mostly quietly, chimes in once and awhile, and doesn’t act like Dean is some tragic fucking orphan like Cas does. She doesn’t act like Dean’s even there most of the time, which is fine. Dean kind of prefers it.

One day, though, the Monday after another long weekend of work and coming home to a boring fucking room and night filled with uneasy sleep, Dean pisses her off.

Lisa’s boyfriend is getting up from the table, going to a club meeting or something, and he leans down to kiss Lisa on the cheek, “Love you,” he says by way of goodbye, and Lisa blushes a little and smiles and tucks a piece of her stupid hair behind her stupid ear.

“Well you’ve certainly got him whipped, huh, Lis?” Dean says as soon as he leaves.

For a minute, there’s silence. Lisa, Bela, and Cas exchange looks; like Dean’s had his tongue removed and speaking for him was a miracle. Dean _hates_ it.

Cassie’s eyes narrow across the table after a second, though, and then she laughs, “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are not this sad. No fucking way.”

The thing about Cassie was that she was a nice girl. Dean had always thought so. She was the last of his friends he thought would finally stop putting up with his shitty attitude, but here they were.

Castiel begins to speak, but Cassie cuts him off.

“Like, are you so fucking bitter that seeing someone else being in love actually bothers you?”

“Um, no,” Dean says, a little embarrassed by being so fucking blatant and irritating about it. It wasn’t his friend’s fault that Dean was in a shitty mood. And he was happy for Lisa, he really was, but he was such a fucking tool that the happiness was tinged by jealousy. There’s still a well of ugly emotions in him though, too loud to be drowned out by the brief moments where he recognizes he’s being an asshole.

“I’m just not going to change who I am cause of the person I’m fucking,” Dean says. In his head, it sounds apologetic, reasonable, but as soon as it’s out of his mouth he realizes how bad it sounds.

“Who said he’s changing who he is?” Lisa snaps.

“Yeah, and besides, Dean, you changed into a huge fucking dick because you ruined your relationship with the person you’re fucking. So.” Cassie smiles, like she knows she’s made her point and Dean kind of figures she has.

            Dean was only being a dick about this because of Sam. Dean could recognize that, and it was pretty clear that everyone else could, too. Lisa and her boyfriend were cooing over each other and laughing at dumb jokes Dean didn’t get and Dean suddenly missed Sam with a sharp pang. And then, her boyfriend went the said he loved her, like it was as easy as that. And he said it in front of everyone, like it wasn’t fucking lame to be so wrapped up in one person, so willing to make yourself vulnerable.

            Dean still gets freaked out telling his dad he loves him. Dean’s dad is one of those people—he tells Dean he loves him after every fight they get into, he sends him off to school in the morning with it. Dean doesn’t know if it’s cause he got too much of the affection, and it sort of overwhelmed him. Or maybe it’s because seeing his dad’s openness was downright painful when Dean’s mother passed away. Dean could see what it did to his dad. Dean thinks that if he hadn’t been around, his dad probably never would have pulled himself out of his tailspin.

            Either way, Dean never really had to deal with it. Keeping things casual was easy for him. He was never bothered when someone he was fucking around with started with that kind of shit and he had to cut them loose.

            Dean doesn’t know why all the signs with Sam didn’t set off warning bells. Well, that’s not true. Dean recognized them and he didn’t care.

And if he’s being honest with himself, Dean liked it. The sex with Sam was amazing, and now that’s he just getting sex, he misses everything else. He misses Sam so much that the absence almost hurts and it’s turned him completely intolerable and he recognizes that it’s all his fault and—

            The lunch bell rings, and Dean just wants to bury his head in the table and scream because now that’s he realized what a fucking mistake he made, he has no idea what to do with the information.

            Cassie’s hand wraps around his arm and tugs him upwards.

            “Come on, you fucking moron,” she says.

            Dean follows her out the lunchroom. She’s quiet next to him, but Dean feels like there are constant waves of judgment coming off her.

            “I don’t know what to do, okay?” Dean finally snaps.

            Cassie makes a noise of understanding next him, “I don’t know, Dean. There is this amazing thing called the apology.”

            “He pretty much hates me,” Dean says, “I can barely talk to him without him running the other way.” 

            “Well, ask him to one of your little rendezvous, Dean. Come on, put that almost high school education to use.”

            Dean nods, lightly checks his body into Cassie’s, “You could give Dr. Phil a run for his money.”

“You’re such an asshole, Winchester,” Cassie says, and for the first time in weeks Dean feels like maybe she doesn’t mean it.

\---

            Sam agrees to head out to the bleachers with a shy shrug. He walks purposefully slow, trailing behind Dean despite Dean’s attempts to match Sam’s pace. They practically crawl to the bleachers, and as soon as they get there, Sam starts working on his belt.

            “Hey, wait, Sam, stop.”

            Sam looks up, meets Dean’s eyes, his gaze huge and startled. Dean wants to rub his hand down up and down his spine, get him to calm down, but he doesn’t think that would help. At least, not anymore.

            “What’s wrong?” Sam asks. His voice is a little shaky.

            “I wanted to apologize,” Dean says.

            “For what?” Sam takes a step back from Dean, face still tight and anxious.

            “I was a dick. Because talking about feelings and shit freaks me out,” Sam blinks at him, “But I miss you, Sam. Like a fucking lot.”

            “I’m right here.”

            “No, I miss _you._ I’m sorry I didn’t realize it earlier. And that I’m a fucking asshole. I bet I give great forgive-me blowjobs, though.”

            Sam jerks his eyes away from Dean and stares at the ground. He crosses his arms across his chest. When he speaks, Dean can barely hear him, “This isn’t funny, Dean.”

            Of all the reactions, this isn’t one Dean prepared for.

            “I’m not joking,” Dean says but Sam turned away from him.

            Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder and Sam wrenches his body away from it.

            “Don’t _touch_ me,” he hisses.

            “Sam, I—“

            “I get that all this is some game to you,” Sam starts, “That’s been made very clear to me. I was willing to play along because I’m fucking pathetic. But this is fucked up, Dean. You have to know,“ Sam’s voice is all anger till it cracks, and Sam scrubs a hand over his face, “I was wrong about you,” Sam says, “But you were wrong about me if you thought I would fall for this.”

            “ _Sam,_ if you would just listen to me,”

            “You can’t treat people like this, Dean. I know this is just going to be funny to you, and you’re going to laugh about it later, but you need to hear from someone that this isn’t fucking okay.”

            “I’m not—“

            “No. This is done. That’s all I had to say. Oh, and fuck you.”

            When Sam turns to leave, his face is blotchy and his eyes are red but he’s walking steadily. He storms past Dean, giving him a wide berth, like Dean’s infected by something Sam finds particularly disgusting. Dean feels fucking disgusting.

            Dean almost chases after him. He’s torn between doing that and tracking down Benny and deciding exactly what he told Sam. Something has gone wrong here. Dean’s sure he wasn’t such a massive douche that Sam would think that about him without a little help.

            The fact that Sam said it at all makes Dean’s chest feel tight and hot but he knows that, ultimately, no matter what Benny said, it’s still his own fault. Benny couldn’t have done shit if Dean hadn’t already given Sam reason to doubt him. Dean did this. He fucked Sam up, and he ruined what was happening between them and then he thought that this alone would patch it up. Dean feels pressure start behind his eyes, his throat closing up.

            In the end, Dean doesn’t chase Sam or Benny down. He calls Cassie and after three rings she picks up.

            “I was in class!” She yells into the receiver, and Dean can barely keep the sob out of his voice, “I fucked up, Cas.”

            “Oh, Dean,” she says, voice instantly softer, “What happened?”

            Dean tells her through hitched breaths, feeling like the biggest loser on the planet, but grateful that Cassie never mentions it.

            “Okay,” Cassie says when Dean finishes, “It’s okay, Dean. You can fix this.”

            “How?” Dean moans into the phone, “I ruined everything.”

            Cassie sighs over the line, “Well, first, I’m going to fucking murder Benny.” Dean chokes out a laugh.

            “And you, Dean, are going to do a little wooing.”

\---

            Dean feels like less of a tool than he thought he would. Yeah, bringing Sam flowers was embarrassing and a big show or whatever, but Sam deserved it. And if this would help repair whatever damage Dean did, Dean was okay with whatever people thought of him.

            Cassie had counseled with Castiel and they’d agreed that white tulips were best.

            “For forgiveness,” Castiel had sighed peacefully. Dean had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. It was for Sam.

            Dean has to fucking hound Sam down during the day though. Dean had thought finding Sam was bad before, but after their conversation, Sam is practically a ghost. Dean doesn’t want to do it in history class, figures that kind of spectacle will embarrass Sam more than flatter him. He eventually corners Sam inside a bathroom Lisa texted him to tell him Sam just went into.

            Sam jumps when he sees Sam leaning against the sink, flowers held away from his body towards Sam.

            “What are you doing?”

            “I’m giving you flowers,” Dean says, as sincerely as he can manage, “White tulips. For forgiveness.”

            Sam hesitates before taking the flowers, eyeing them suspiciously in his hands.

            “I don’t understand,” Sam says, “Why would you do this?”

            “Use that big brain of yours and figure it out, Sammy,” Dean says. He thinks it comes out charming, how he talked to Sam before this whole shit storm, but it just makes Sam frown.

            “Hah. Hah.” Sam says, and then he turns, tosses the flowers in the bathroom’s garbage can, and disappears out the door.

            “Fuck,” Dean says to no one. But Cassie warned him that this might happen. He’s prepared for it. Dean has a fucking game plan.

\---

            The next day, Dean brings some food that’d he prepared the night before. Dean wasn’t a terrible cook when he wanted to be, and he’d made some of his mom’s soup and thrown in some salad because he figured Sam would appreciate it.

He’s packed it all up in Tupperware, included silverware, even bought some of the cafeteria’s huge cookies and thrown them in because even when Sam would harp on about eating healthy, his eyes glazed over a little bit every time Dean broke off a piece of his cookie to hand to Sam.

He asks Bela if she could follow Sam out of her third period to see where he went for lunch.

Bela laughs when Dean explains why, “It became self aware!” She cackles, but when she finally stops, she agrees.

Bela texts him that Sam headed up to the library, and Dean starts in that direction. Fucking figures. Dean doesn’t know why he didn’t think to check there in the first place.

The library is mostly quiet, hardly anyone around, when Dean cracks the door open.

It’s so quiet that just that little noise has the only two people in the room—the librarian and Sam—turn to look at him.

Dean waves. Sam’s mouth twists downward.

Dean makes his way over to Sam’s empty table, sets down his bag of food with a smile.

“I brought you lunch,” he announces.

“Oh,” Sam says, “Isn’t that a lot of trouble?”

“It wasn’t too bad. The soup simmers for most of the cooking time, and I got the cookies here.”

“You made soup,” Sam says, tone disbelieving, “To fuck with me?”

“I made soup to _apologize_ to you.” Dean says.

Sam reaches out and tips to bag toward him, peeking inside.

“Soup. And salad. And cookies.” Sam lists, “I feel like you’re maybe taking this a little far, Dean.”

“I’m not fucking with you, Sam. Honestly. Do I seem like the kind of guy who would go to all this effort just to mess with someone?”

“All evidence points to yes.”

Dean frowns, “I’m telling you, Sam, everything that’s gone down between us hasn’t been some kind of game. I’m shitty at this but I really do want to apologize.”

Dean slides the bag across the table, and Sam hesitantly begins unpacking its contents. Dean feels accomplished as Sam opens the soup, breathes in, and takes a hesitant first bite.

“So you just want to apologize?” Sam says after chewing and swallowing. The smell of the soup is amazing. Dean wants to take out his own container but he doesn’t want to seem presumptuous.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Dean says, and smiles.

“Apology accepted.” Sam says.

Dean feels like his face is splitting open he’s smiling so hard, and he leans across the table to grab his own bowl when he looks up and sees Sam unhappy expression.

“What?” Dean asks, honestly confused.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks.

“I’m eating with you?” Dean says it like a question. Maybe he wasn’t clear enough with Sam.

“Um, you don’t have to be nice to me anymore, Dean. You’re forgiven. Sins absolved.” Sam replies, taking another slow bite of his food.

“That’s not—“ Dean runs a hand through his hair in frustration. How did he manage to fuck this up, too? Sam was supposed to be smart. What kind of person packs someone a picnic to just give an apology? Jesus Christ. Dean doesn’t know what to do to make it any more clear and the situation is making him freeze.

“Okay.” Dean finally gets out, nods his head, “Cool. Okay. I mean, it’s not just—we should be friends.”

“Sure, Dean,” Sam replies, voiced all detached friendliness. Dean presses his lips together and gets up from the table.

“Enjoy your soup,” Dean says as he begins to collect his belongings. He doesn’t know how he can get Sam to start talking to him again, how he can get him to even approach him because apparently Dean is getting his point across all wrong. Then, inspiration strikes, “Could you get me the Tupperware back when you’re done?”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, smile turning incredulous, “Um, okay,” he says.

“Good, good,” Dean says as he walks away, “Looking forward to it.”

\---

            “You didn’t.” Cassie sighs after Dean explains what happened. Lisa shakes her head sadly.

            It’s been two days since the picnic incident and Dean still sees just as little of Sam. Sam still won’t even look at him in class, and Dean has checked the library at lunch, but Sam has apparently moved locations. Dean is frustrated and upset and he’s realized that it’s been weeks since Sam’s kissed him and the thought has just brought his mood lower.

            “Wait, what’s wrong with that?” Dean asks, bewildered.

            “One, that’s the lamest fucking ending line ever and you know it.” Cassie begins.

            “Two, you told him you were there to apologize,” Lisa continues, “When you’re really there to confess your undying love.”

            Dean flushes, “I thought it was clear why I was there. You guys said bringing someone a picnic is clear.”

            “Obviously we thought you wouldn’t be stupid enough to say you were just there to apologize,” Cassie says, “We overestimated you. That’s on us.”

            “Hey!” Dean says.

            “Okay,” Lisa cuts into the beginning of Dean’s diatribe, “Clearly you can’t do subtlety.”

            Dean grumbles.

            “So I say you should just tell him.”

            “Agreed.” Cassie says, “You just need to tell Sam how you feel. It’s the only way to dig yourself out of this idiot hole you got yourself into.”

            Dean kind of agrees. He’s pretty much come to terms with how he feels about Sam. He got there when he couldn’t even jerk off without picturing Sam making out with him.

            On the other hand, realizing that, and realizing how much he just wants to talk to Sam, to hear his stupid voice and to stroke his dumb hair, still makes Dean deeply uncomfortable. Even his friends bringing it up has him getting a little fidgety.

            “I don’t know—I mean—who says he even feels the same way anymore?” Dean manages.

            “No one. That’s kind of the point of saying it,” Lisa says, all sage and shit, which grates Dean’s nerves.

            Because that’s what it comes down to, really. Telling Sam he loved him gave Sam all the cards. Telling someone how you feel strips you naked in front of them, gives them a knife, and lets them decide how deep a mark they want to leave.

            But then again, hadn’t Sam already done that for Dean? He’d let Dean have him as easy as breathing. Making yourself vulnerable to someone like that only ever worked out if they opened back up to you. Mark for mark, or something like that.

            Dean nods, “Okay,” he says, and his voice sounds a little weak, “Okay. I can fucking do this.”

            “Sure you can!” Cassie says. Dean wonders if that’s supposed to sound encouraging.

\---

            Dean decides to not do the flowers thing again, considering how Sam reacted last time. Instead, he waits at the cross section between where Sam and Dean’s houses are. He still has no idea when Sam leaves school now, but he figures that he has to pass this way eventually. Dean tries to tell himself that he isn’t a giant creep.

            An hour and half pass, though, and there’s still no sign of Sam. Dean has gone from leaning against a nearby mailbox to pacing anxiously up and down the sidewalk.

            It’s getting close to dusk, and Dean can’t imagine that Sam would hang around school that long just to avoid him. Well, maybe he would. He probably likes reading in the library or something.

            Still, Dean waits another fifteen minutes and is all but about to give up when he sees Sam walking quickly around the corner from the opposite end of the street.

            “Motherfucker,” Dean mutters to himself. Apparently, Sam didn’t want to run into Dean so badly that he took a long, alternate path home. He’s yards away from where Dean’s pacing, and practically sprinting. He disappears behind the bend in the path before Dean thinks to yell out to him.

            Dean tries to reassure himself that is completely normal to follow someone. If Sam wants nothing to do with him after this, Dean will leave him alone. He’s just gone so long not trying, that doing even something like this feels like an invasion. Shit, it probably would feel invasive even if he and Sam were dating. Which. Would be nice.

            Dean rounds to where Sam disappeared to, and sees him disappear into the third house down the street. Dean sighs, and makes his way to the house.

            As he’s approaching, the window upstairs illuminates as someone gets in the room and turns on the light. Dean wonders what the chances are of getting to talk to Sam if he knocks on the front door. Dean isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t think Sam’s dad or Sam would be super into letting him inside.

            Dean decides to try his luck with the window. If it’s Sam’s dad, Dean guesses he can just duck behind the bushes or something. And Sam is a fucking dork. Dean figures he’s definitely the type who appreciates romantic gestures like this. Probably has a fucking journal. Dean feels better just thinking about it.

            He rounds the house the side of the illuminated room and grabs some stones from the landscaping surrounding the house.

            The first rock hits the bricks, but the second hits the center of Sam’s window. Dean’s prepared to throw a few more, figures Sam will need a little motivation, but then there’s the sound of a window being unlatched and Sam’s silhouette appears in the glass.

            Sam opens the window almost soundlessly.

 _“_ Dean?” He hisses, “What are you doing?”  

            “Throwing rocks at your bedroom window,” Dean says.

            Sam looks behind himself nervously, “Could you maybe stop?”

            “If you’ll talk to me for a minute, I promise I’ll go.”

            "Is this about the tupperware? I'll bring it back tomorrow."

            Dean splutters, "What? No! Keep it! Just--listen."            

            Sam looks down at Dean unhappily, but nods, “But be fucking quiet, Jesus.”

            “Sam, the way I acted was shitty. And I’m sorry. That’s not what I think about you.” Dean tries to keep his voice down, though, and still convey that he is sincere. Sam seems a little nervous, and Dean figures part of it is him being there, but another part has to do with Sam’s dad, who makes him stay home Sundays and probably wouldn’t appreciate a weird kid confessing feelings outside his son’s window.

            “Dean, you apologized it’s fine—just, could you leave me alone? That’d make this whole thing easier for me.” And it hurts Dean that Sam still thinks like that but it gives him some hope, too. 

            “I didn’t want to apologize,” Dean grimaces at how that sounds, “I wanted to apologize. But I was stupid because what I think I didn’t get across is that I miss you.”

            “You miss me?” Sam repeats, “You—you see me all the time, Dean.”

            Dean would argue that.

            “No, Sam, I miss _you_ you. I don’t know if that makes any fucking sense but you’re the only person I think about being around all the time. I don’t want to just see you in the hall, or, you know, behind the bleachers or whatever. I miss being _with_ you, and watching shitty movies, and having you like, fucking hang out with me in school. I didn’t realize how fucking boring everything is without you. I just. Miss you.”

            Dean can feel himself flushing, but he feels lighter somehow, like just by saying that, some of the tension and frustration and hurt of the past few weeks has lessened.

            Sam is quiet above him for a minute, and Dean’s about to unload all the other feelings that have stacked up in him, already a little giddy with the feeling when he hears Sam’s voice, way too quiet for window to ground-floor communication.

            “Why?”

            “Because I love you, Sam.” Dean says. Somehow, it comes out as easy as breathing. Dean doesn’t know why he was so freaked out about it. “I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry." Dean smiles up at Sam, "That's all I wanted to say." 

            “ _Dean,”_ Sam’s voice is choked, and Dean can’t be sure from as the second story, but if he had to guess he’d say Sam’s eyes are a little watery.

            “I know you said it before. I’m sorry I didn’t realize earlier, because you deserve someone who can tell you every day.”

            Sam clears his throat, and laughs. It’s a high, happy sound, and it makes Dean’s stomach feel fluttery in what he’s coming to recognize as good.

            “You’re a fucking moron,” Sam whispers down at him, “I can’t believe—“ Sam cuts himself off, “You can’t just be a fucking jerk all the time and expect everything to be fine just because you said you love me.”

            Dean’s smiling so hard his face hurts, “Soon as I get my hands on you, Sammy, I’m gonna make it fine in all kinds of ways.”

\---

            Sam says that his dad would freak if Sam snuck out, but he talks to Dean for almost another hour before his dad calls for him from downstairs.

            “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Sam asks, and it kills Dean that Sam still sounds unsure.

            “Try to get rid of me.” Sam closes the window as quietly as he had opened it, but he stays watching Dean, smiling sweetly from behind the glass, till Dean makes himself wave and walk away. Going home, Dean feels better than he has in weeks. He figures the only way he could feel better than this is to have Sam coming home with him.

            Dean can barely sleep that night, and he wakes up early the next morning. Dean gets out as early as he can, cause he just knows that Sam is the type to gets to school early.

            Sam blushes when he sees Dean waiting for him where their paths usually diverge.

            “Little early for you, isn’t he?” He says. Dean knows Sam’s fucking with him but he doesn’t care. His hands are itchy with wanting to touch him.

            He’s got his hands wrapped around Sam’s waist in a second, dragging him up against Dean’s body. Sam still feels so good pressed up against him. It hasn’t been that long since they’ve had sex, but just pressing against Sam, hip to hip, knowing that this is okay between them again, makes Dean’s body feel electric.

            “Hey,” Sam says, voice amused.

            “Hey,” Dean replies, and then he kisses Sam. Sam is so fucking responsive against him, surging up to kiss Dean back immediately. Kissing Sam is just as great as Dean remembers. It’s kind of better, if Dean was thinking about it. But what he’s thinking about is how fucking wet and warm and perfect Sam’s mouth is, and how his cock throbs when Sam sucks on his lower lip.

            Sam breaks away from the kiss with a grin, taking a breath.

            “We’re going to be late for school.”

            Dean groans, “Jesus fucking Christ. How could I like such a fucking loser?”

            Sam nuzzles into Dean’s neck, “Love such a fucking loser,” he says.

            Dean smiles, wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulder as they right themselves. Gets himself at the perfect angle to be able to stroke a thumb down Sam’s neck as they walk.

            “Love you too,” Sam says as he leans into the touch. 

            Dean heart feels like it’s going to burst. He can’t believe they ever doubted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY SO THAT'S THAT!! I hope you enjoyed it because I really loved writing this! Sorry Benny is like...kinda the villain??? I don't really have anything against him he just fit the role. Once again, apologies for any mistakes and please let me know if anything is horrible because i never beta anything....like it's not a great thing. But anyways!!! That season finale was crazzzy right??? Okay thank you for reading and I really hope you enjoyed!! :)


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